


Leave A Light On

by dreadpiratewatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Papa Greg loves his boys, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's world splintered when John told him to leave him behind. It shattered when the building went up with John still inside it. He waited, night after night, with the living room light on, because John promised. He promised that he would come home. All Sherlock had to do was leave a light on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave A Light On

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I'm back! Sorry it's been so few and far between updates, I've literally done nothing but work for the last few months, and I have no time to write anymore, which sucks, but I do what I can when I get time. 
> 
> I had this little idea, and for some reason, my mind kept going back to John saying to Sherlock "Just leave a light on", so I wrote a little thing! 
> 
> I hope you like it! 
> 
> -Stevie
> 
> P.S. If anyone wants to say hi, or talk, or whatever, my tumblr is dread-pirate-watson. I love talking to you guys, so come say hi!

"Drop your weapon, Mr. Kelleher, you've got nowhere to go." John shouted over to the criminal who was standing at the end of the hallway of the empty warehouse with a gun pointed directly at the detective on the ground.

"You drop your weapon, Dr. Watson, or I'll kill him!" He replied, kicking Sherlock in the ribs a bit harder than necessary.

The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock.

But, no one dared threaten Sherlock Holmes in John Watson's presence.

The army Doctor locked his jaw and straightened his back, then fixed his eyes back on the criminal, and took an alarming step forward.

Sherlock felt the ex-Navy Seal tense up from behind him, and he could practically hear the grinding of his teeth. "Stay right where you are, Dr. Watson! I'll kill him, I swear!"

"I believe you." John replied quietly, but like steel. "However, if you lay a hand on him, I'll put a bullet in your brain before you get the chance to breathe. So, I would think twice about who you're threatening." Then, he took another step.

"I'll shoot him, Dr. Watson! If you take one more step, he dies!" His voice was deep and booming, like thunder, but, miraculously, John did not seem phased.

Sherlock had once described his boyfriend as having nerves of steel, but no one but him knew the half of it. John, being a doctor, never gambled with the mortality of a person, unless he knew he would win. However, not even Sherlock knew what he was planning.

John stood defiantly in his place at the end of the hall, his eyes never leaving the American's face. His fingers very briefly tightened around the gun, but he didn't move. Sherlock waited on the cold ground for him to just _do something._ Then, he smiled.

"Vatican Cameos."

Sherlock rolled onto his back, just as John fired the gun and the bullet sailed past Jason Kelleher's right shoulder, startling the ex-soldier, and causing him to misfire the gun, and send his own bullet into the wooden boards in the wall. Sherlock, now on his back, drove both of his feet into the man's knees, sending him back onto the floor, giving Sherlock enough time to jump to his feet and join John a few feet away.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John demanded, taking his boyfriend's hand and pulling him behind him.

The detective nodded. "I'm fine, are you?"

John gives him an almost smug grin. "Never better."

From a few feet away, Jason Kelleher groaned in pain. He had landed on the floor against some of the heavy metal barrels full of kerosene, one of which, had fallen over and was now spilling out all over the floor, and was struggling to get to his feet.

"You better just stay right where you are." John ordered. "The police are outside. They're waiting for you."

The American laughed breathlessly and bitterly at John's remark, and dropped his head. "I won't go to prison, Dr. Watson." He whispered. He pulled the gun out of his lap, and aimed it right at one of the barrels, sending a spark of terror through Sherlock's body. "I'll die first."

"John!" Sherlock gripped his boyfriend's jacket, and pulled him backwards.

"Sherlock, go!" The army doctor pushed Sherlock forward, and together, they both began to run away from the small room, knowing exactly what was coming next.

The sound of the gunshot lasted only a fraction of a second, and then came the raging heat of the fire that had exploded behind them. The force of the blast sent John and Sherlock rocketing forward onto the ground. The fire sent the boards from the ceiling falling down, as well as the doorways and some of the rusted metal structures, and it wasn't until the ringing in Sherlock's ears stopped ringing that he realized that the fire was spreading.

The smoke was thick, and the blaze was hot, but the detective crawled to his feet, and covered his mouth so that he wouldn't breathe in too much. "John!" He shouted, his voice already rough from the smoke.

"Sherlock!" Came the weakened shout from a few feet away.

The detective limped forward, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ankle, searching through the wreckage for his boyfriend. "John?" He called again, already not liking this. "John, where are you?"

"Over here!"

Sherlock let out a series of coughs, in an attempt to clear his throat. He knew he had to move quickly, because the building was on the brink of collapse. "John, stay where you are, I'm coming!" He shouted, trying to ease John's nerves, though his own anxiety was crawling under his skin.

Then, when he jumped over a pile of metal that had fallen in the middle of the walk way, he finally saw outline of John's body on the ground, trapped under a large metal grating.

His heart lurched.

"John!" Sherlock ran forward and dropped to his knees in front of the army doctor's body, and gripped the sides of his face out of pure panic. "John, are you alright?"

The army doctor groaned in pain. "I'm fine, Sherlock, I promise."

Sherlock sighed in relief. "You scared the hell out of me." He muttered. "Come on, John, we've got to get you out of here." He slipped his arms around John's middle, and began trying to pull him out from underneath the wreckage.

John let out a cry of pain when the grating moved. "No! Sherlock, stop, don't move it." He ordered, his voice strained with pain.

"John, I'm sorry, but we have to-" He was cut off as a loud crunching sound echoed through the now burning building, and right behind him, a section of the ceiling fell, sending bits of debris flying around them as the fire continued to spread.

In a panic, Sherlock stood, and searched for the easiest way out. He tried to analyze every angle, but his brain was so jumbled from the voice inside his head that continued to tell him that he would never get John out. He had to move the large grate without injuring John further, and he had to do it quickly so that they could get out in time, but-

"Sherlock!" John shouted at him as more of the building began to crumble. "Sherlock, you need to get out of here!"

The detective turned back to his boyfriend in horror. "No, I'm not leaving you here!" He shot back, once again go crouching down to try to pull his boyfriend out from underneath the metal trap.

"Sherlock, the building is going down! If you don't get out of here, you'll die!"

"I'm not leaving you behind!"

"Yes, you are!"

Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks. He stared down into John's eyes, which were cold and hard, and full of such intensity that Sherlock couldn't move.

John wanted him to go.

He wanted him to go and leave him behind.

Once again, John was willing to die for him.

"John, no, I... I can't just-" He tried, his voice trembling as he gripped his boyfriend's hand. "There has to be a way to get out out of here, I can't just... No, I won't just leave you here! I... I can't. I can't let you..." He couldn't even finish the sentence. He knew what leaving John meant.

Terror, real, gut-wrenching terror welled up behind his heart, and he thought back to every moment where he had been saved by John Watson, every criminal they chased, every murder they solved, every single moment with John Watson, and every single time he could have lost him, but never did. John Watson couldn't leave him.

"Sherlock." John said gently. "Sherlock, look at me."

And then, he looked up, and his world stopped.

John Watson was an loyal man. He was a loyal soldier, a loyal friend, and if there was one person to trust with a life, it was him. He was was selfless, and caring, and passionate, and he loved Sherlock Holmes beyond a reasonable doubt. But, in that moment, Sherlock almost wished he didn't. His eyes had lost the icy coldness, and had become soft and kind, and when he took Sherlock's hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, he smiled. It made Sherlock sick.

"Just go." He whispered, his voice cracking slightly from the tears in his throat. "I'll be okay."

"No, John, please, don't-" Sherlock tried to beg.

John grabbed his collar and pulled him down for a kiss. It wasn't like any other kiss of John's, which were always warm, like he was cherishing Sherlock's very being and which made the detective's fragile heart want to burst. This kiss wasn't like that. This was like a regret. This was like an apology. This was John saying 'I love you, and I'm so sorry, and I need you to do this for me.' This was John saying goodbye.

When they pulled away from one another, Sherlock watched as John released his hand, and gave him a pained smile. "I'll come home. Just leave a light on."

Sherlock knew it was a lie.

And for some reason, his body pulled itself from the floor, and with tears threatening to fall, he began to back away, watching as John lay his head back down on the concrete, not even allowing Sherlock to see him cry. The detective turned and ran until he saw the exit, and he ran straight into the arms of Greg Lestrade, who was speaking to him, though his voice was muffled.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, snap out of it! Where's John?" Greg demanded, shaking the detective's shoulders.

Sherlock glanced back at the burning building, his eyes fixed on the flames. "He... He told me to go." He whispered, unable to say any more than that. He stood there, waiting for John to come out of the flames.

Then, just as Greg tried to speak, the entire top floor of the building collapsed in on itself, and the remaining structure began to come down with it.

_"John!"_

Sherlock ran forward, but was quickly grabbed by Greg, who was surprisingly strong, and held on tight, preventing him from running back into the burning building, no matter how much Sherlock screamed.

** _____________ **

Greg brought the detective to the hospital, and sat with him in his room for a few hours while Sherlock stared at the floor. He told them that Mycroft had sent over his best men to investigate the burnt remains of the warehouse, and that most of the police forces of the state of California were sorting through the wreckage to find John Watson. He told him John was strong, and that he was okay. He told him John would be okay.

Sherlock told him he wanted to go home.

So, when the doctors released him, Greg took him to the airport where he sat on a private plane that belonged to Mycroft, utterly silent, and then stayed the entire drive back to Baker St. The DI drove them back to the flat, and the whole time, Greg Lestrade had his hand on Sherlock's arm, occasionally giving it a light squeeze whenever Sherlock jumped.

Sherlock didn't remember arriving home, but the next thing he knew, he was lying in his bed with Lestrade sleeping in a chair in the corner. Mrs. Hudson was sitting beside him, rubbing calming circles into his back while he slept. Her eyes were red and puffy, and it only took Sherlock a fraction of a second to deduce that his brother had informed her of what had occurred back in America. She didn't say a word to him. It was her loving look that broke him. The loving look from the woman who was more like a mother to him than even his own mother was the one that finally broke Sherlock Holmes.

And then, like a child, he broke into tears, and buried his face in the pillow, all while Mrs. Hudson hushed him and held him. He didn't even hear Greg leave, but it wasn't until the DI returned with a call from Mycroft that he could see his eyes were misty and and red as well. John Watson was everyone's friend, everyone loved him, and now that he was gone...

He thought back to every night in bed, every kiss, every morning when John would wake up before him and stroke at his skin, and brush his curls out of his face, then laugh quietly to himself because he couldn't remember ever being so happy. Sometimes, John would even tell him stories when he thought that Sherlock was asleep, though Sherlock never told him.

There wouldn't be stories anymore.

He wished he had paid more attention so that he could remember them. He never wanted to forget them, but, slowly, the memories were already beginning to fade, and there was nothing that frightened Sherlock more than that. That meant that the more memories that faded would become larger, and more important, and that meant that one day, he would even forget John.

"They found him."

Sherlock froze.

"He's in the hospital. There's no word on his condition, but... But they found John."

Mrs. Hudson gasped at the DI's words, then buried her face in her hands for a moment before reaching down and pulling Sherlock into a tight embrace. "Oh, Sherlock... They've found him."

_They found him._

_There's no word on his condition, but... But they found John._

Soon after the reveal, Greg went home, and Mrs. Hudson kissed his forehead and went down to her own flat, leaving Sherlock alone. He sat out in the living room, smoking a cigarette, though he knew that John would be displeased. He watched the smoke dance in the small room, then slowly fade as it went out the window. He was taking his mind for something to do, something to say... But everything was blank.

He dropped his head, and looked down into the dim orange glow of the cigarette, and he had a sudden flashback to the fire, and in a state of panic, and all but slammed it into the ashtray, and jumped to his feet, running his shaking hands through his thick black curls.

_Go to bed, love. You need to sleep._

He hated listening to John's voice in his head, especially at a time like this, but he couldn't ignore it.

Sherlock sighed, and quickly cleaned up, throwing his cigarettes right back where John had hidden them, and leaving the window open so that the flat could air out. He turned out the light, and began to walk back to their bedroom, the creaking floorboards giving him some comfort.

_I'll come home. Just leave a light on._

The detective stopped in his tracks, and quickly ran back to flip the switch on the lamp. He was going to do it for John. Just in case he came home.

He did not sleep that night.

** _____________  **

He ignored everything, every time his phone rang, every visitor at the door, he just sat int the living room, and waited.

Every night for the next week, he left the light on, just in case.

** _____________  **

Twelve nights later, Sherlock turned off the light.

When he went to bed, there were already tears staining his cheeks.

** _____________  **

He heard noise sometime after what he estimated to be around two thirty in the morning. He didn't even wake up when he heard his bedroom door open. It wasn't until he felt someone slip into the bed beside him that he woke up completely. His eyes snapped open, and he was about to jump out of bed when a pair of very familiar, strong arms wrapped around his body.

Sherlock's heart jumped, and he felt his body tense.

There was a soft chuckle in his ear, and the arms around his torso tightened. "I thought I told you to leave a light on."

"John! You're alive, thank God!" Sherlock gasped, flipping around and collapsing into his boyfriend's arms.

John let out an _oof_ of pain, and pushed his near frantic boyfriend off him with a pained look on his face. "Be careful, love. I'm covered in bruises, and have quite a few burns."

"But... How did you get out of there? How are you alive?" Sherlock demanded, his voice shaking horribly with joy and unshed tears.

The doctor gave him a smug look. "I managed to pull myself out of the wreckage, and took shelter in the basement until it was clear enough to get out. It took a while, but they finally found me, unconscious and in pain, and they took me to the hospital. There was no major damage done to me. Mycroft tried to get ahold of you, but you never answered. That's why I came home. I was worried sick about you." John finished, reaching up and stroking his boyfriend's cheek.

The feeling of John's hand against his cheek was so soft and so warm, and he realized how close he was to losing the only thing that made him feel alive.

Tears filled his eyes, and he dropped his head, then sank back down onto the bed with his head rested on John's chest. He could feel the bandages on his chest, probably because of the burns, and he let out a deep, shuddering breath. "I thought you were gone." He whispered.

John made a noise that sounded so pained, it almost broke his heart. "I know. I know, Sherlock, I'm so sorry." He pressed a kiss to the top of his head that lingered for a moment, then he pulled away, and tightened his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. "I told you I'd come home, though."

Sherlock let out a breathy laugh. "I'm sorry I doubted you."

"I suppose I forgive you. But you're making tea tomorrow morning."

"I can do that."

He felt John smile, and the doctor's arms tightened around his body once again.

Sherlock breathed deeply, inhaling John's scent of tea and sunshine and everything wonderful in the world, and right before he fell asleep, he remembered how lucky he was to have John Watson. It was a miracle he survived, but, that was their life. No matter how beaten or bruised he was when he came out of the wreckage, he'd always come home to Sherlock. 

After all, John Watson _never_ gambled. 


End file.
